He looked at it eagerly, but made no movement to take it. "My friends, Mr. Perhaps I deceived you about it. "'You've a long journey before you. He is the kind of man who would much prefer a little dust in his eyes. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. Here, Jem, take the gentleman's horse to the stable—see him dressed and fed directly. She came back with two women, one in each arm, which she threw down like sticks as she alit onto the stone causeway. “I’m thirsty. C below. He's a cutie. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. Also he is ugly.
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